


Venak'hol

by Heronfem



Series: Kadan [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Hopeful Ending, Multi, Polyamory, References to Depression, Tevinter Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: Dorian returns to Minrathous after a summer away, Blackwall makes a long journey, and sometimes home is a complicated concept.





	Venak'hol

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Dominawritesthings several years ago.

Minrathous is just as beautiful as when he left it, and by that Dorian means that it's a sweltering cesspool that happens to have very pretty turrets. He remembers the first time he had arrived in the city, it had seemed a marvel. Glorious, growing up out of an island, jagged and sharp as the history of the Imperium herself. He was fresh from Vyrantium then, on his way to a reform school that had a history of turning around “troubled” children. It was the last place that would take him, and he'd fought with every rotten, corrupt teacher every day of his stay. 

Mahael meets him at the gates, his skin far darker from being in the city. “Have a good trip?” 

“Wonderfully,” he says, and slows his gelding to a sedate walk. Mahael, Liberati and branded with enough tattoos to make it obvious that he'd been quite a rebellious slave, is both his bodyguard and his closest adviser to the people he is meant to serve. He's Anderfel caught, mixed Tevene and Anders. “How soon does Mae want to meet?”

“She's at the house,” Mahael says wryly, and Dorian sighs. So it begins.

The streets of Minrathous wind up and down in a baffling array of bridges, arches, cobbled walks, stairs, and a nightmarish amount of side alleys. The gelding is dropped off at the stables to be returned to the mainland, and Dorian slips into the shadows with Mahael. They navigate the twists and turns with ease, too many years of living in the city making them aware of its back roads. They stop at the spicers, they duck into a book shop in a back alley with no name, they chat with the women doing laundry and the people feeding cats. The city aches and breathes, and while Dorian lives in the forest of people he nearly staggers at the ache of homesickness. The choir of voices is nothing to the soft quaking of aspens, the rasp of bowls being scraped clean far from the smooth curls of wood falling to the floor from a lathe. No meadow breezes bring flowers to his nose, and when he reaches his house all there will be is marble, no well worn wood floors.

Just a bed for one, not three.

No Bull in the kitchen.

No Blackwall to yell at him about his library, the books scattering over the halls. 

No quiet, cool mornings to watch halla nibble at the yard, no wing back arm chair from his porch, no birds splashing in their bath out where he can watch them.

He doesn't even realize he's fallen behind until Mahael takes his arm and leads him away, his body following blindly as they head home.

oOo

It is unfair to say he hates the house, but he hates the house.

He's done his best with it, but there is no way around it. It's the house he'd stayed in with his parents, and that somewhat spoiled it. It is beautiful in the way all Tevene things are, covered in black and gold, and he hates every inch of it save for perhaps his bedroom.

He had, in a fit of anger, had his bedroom wallpapered pink.

He'd wallpapered marble.

His father is surely screaming from the beyond.

Dorian sighs as the heavy doors shut behind him, the sound echoing around the room. Off to the side in the receiving room Maevaris sits, lounging in exceptionally ostentatious blue robes and looking exceptionally put out about the sherry in her hand. One of the servants, a slim young woman named Roshya, hurries forward to relieve him of his pack and cloak. He murmurs his thanks, and Mahael leaves with her to get them situated back in his room.

“So early?” he asks, not bothering to hide his exhaustion.

“That great idiot from House Carrius is being a nuisance and I hate to think what it means for the slavery front,” Mae says without so much as a hello. “I know we're trying to avoid being the bad guys, but I'm advising we just kill the bastard and have done with it.”

“Yes, my trip was fine, Blackwall says hello. How are your gardens?” Dorian mutters bitterly, throwing himself on the couch. It's black lacquered on the sides, and a garish red. Very chic. He misses the soft blue and rich rowan of the furniture back home. “I missed you too.”

Her face softens, and she looks at him closer. “You don't look well.”

“Thank you for that stunning observation,” Dorian says, rubbing his forehead. Already he can feel a tension headache building, pain making him even more irritable. “I've just traveled across three countries and your response is that I don't look well. What were you expecting? I'm not getting any younger, I miss my husband dreadfully, and this house makes me want to hang myself.”

He realizes as soon as he said it that Mae's mind has just gone to the worst. She's gone perfectly still, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Dorian-”

“Ignore that,” he mutters. “I like living too much to die. For one thing, I've already walked past the Veil and it wasn't pleasant, thank you.”

She puts her feet down from the couch, frowning. “Perhaps you should take a sabbatical.”

Dorian's laugh has a bit more hysteria in it than he would like. “Oh, yes, certainly. I'll just up and leave the only thing in my life I have any sort of say in and leave you to potentially be murdered for the sake of politics. I'll abandon my life and go-” His throat sticks on _home_. “Go back. No, I don't think so. Bull has Blackwall, he doesn't need me underfoot as well any more than summers.”

Mae looks positively alarmed. “Dorian, what are you talking about?”

He sighs, frustrated and his heart aching. “Mae, just... I can't do this today. Go _home_. Please. I need time.”

Her lips tighten, but she stands. “If you think that man doesn't want you in his bed every day of his life, you are quite mistaken,” she says, and sets the sherry on a side table.

He looks away, unable to stomach the disapproval in her gaze. “Yes, well, we can't have what we want.”

oOo

“ _You made it back safe, then_ ,” Bull says through the sending crystal. Dorian stares at his ceiling, his throat tight with misery.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “It was an uneventful trip.”

Silence, then, “ _Kadan?_ ”

Dorian covers his eyes with one hand, fighting to keep the sobs in his throat.

“ _Kadan, what's wrong?_ ”

A sob rips free and he rolls over, clutching the crystal to his chest. “I want to go home,” he says, his voice hitching and cracking on every word. He'll have kohl stains all over his pillows later, and he doesn't even care. “I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this, I want to go home. Four months, _amatus_ , that's all I get. Four months of the year if I'm lucky, and I miss you so much. It's killing me, this is killing me, and I can't even leave. I can't go back, I have too much to do, and I came home today and all I could think was how much I hate this horrible house and its cold floors. Some days I wake up and wonder what the point is, and if today will be the day someone gets me. If I'd want to stop them, even. I want to go _home_.”

Silence, for a moment, then, “ _Then come home._ ”

Dorian chokes on a broken laugh. “You say that like I can just walk away. We've had this talk, Bull-”

“ _I say that knowing you've got your people in good hands, and that_ we _need you just as much as you need us._ ” Bull's voice cracks. “ _I know we talked about this and you said no before, but-_ kadan _, please. I don't want to lose you._ ”

Dorian holds the crystal tightly before whispering, “Yes.”

“ _Yes_?”

“I'll come home,” Dorian says, eyes filling with tears. “Just for a year. Maker knows the Magesterium would be relieved to not be dueling me every other week.”

The shaky sigh of relief from the crystal is enough to send him into a fresh wave of tears, and Dorian falls asleep to Bull's quiet promises to bring him home.

oOo

The next morning he calls the staff together in the dining room, and clears his throat. There are almost 50 servants keeping the house in order, and the dining room is fairly packed. Everyone is curious, quietly talking among themselves.

“I'm taking a sabbatical,” he says without ceremony, and the room rumbles with shock. He holds up his hands, placating. “I know, this comes as a shock to me as well, but...” he hesitates before plowing on. “But I am not well, and I need to go and recover with my partners, away from the city and politics. None of you will be fired, you will all remain on the payroll. Just like when I'm gone in the summer, Mahael will be managing the household and you may write to me whenever you feel necessary. All of the children will remain in school, their fees will be paid up through the year, you _will_ be provided for, I swear it.”

A hand shoots up in the back, and he nods at the speaker.

“When do you leave? You just got back,” one of the cook's assistants asks, and he smiles at the open concern in her voice.

“I'm not entirely certain. Likely within the next three weeks. I'll be preparing to leave for a long trip throughout next week, and this week I will be handling all of the preparations for the Lucerni to handle themselves with Mae and a few others guiding.”

The cook herself crosses her arms and says firmly, “Whatever you need to do to keep going, we'll handle it.”

Touched, he clears his throat and blinks a few times to clear his eyes.

“Yes, well, I-I hope I'll be all right after this year. I've spent quite a few years away from my partners and it's taken a much harder toll than expected.” He runs a hand through his hair and smiles at them, not quite able to hide the pain around his eyes. “But I'll do my best to be better.”

oOo

On the third week, one of the footmen skids into his study out of breath and quite red.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Marius?”

Marius swallows hard. “There's um. There's a man here to see you, Ser.”

“I'm in the middle of drafting a law,” Dorian says, exasperated. He's up to his neck in paperwork, rushing to get everything done before he leaves in a few days time. At least his things are already packed up, allowing him to work uninterrupted. “Honestly, the nerve of people barging in at all hours. Can he wait?”

Marius beams at him. “No, Ser. Right away, he said. Quite urgent.”

Dorian stares at him, and sighs. “Very well.” He stands, wrapping the over robe he wears around the house around himself before heading down the stairs with Marius hurrying in front of him. 

He steps into the sitting room with his best arrogant face on, only to freeze.

“Ser Thom Blackwall, my lord,” Marius says, giddy.

Dorian almost doesn't recognize him. His hair is long as ever, but pulled up into a neat bun, his beard trimmed tightly down and making him look ten years younger. He's dressed an exquisite long blue coat with dark washed buckles keeping it tight across his chest. Sleek black leather breeches with intricate detailing that mimic the ones Dorian once wore in the Inquisition disappear into tall black boots with the Pavus crest emblazoned in silver on the front. Openly displayed on top of the coat is the dragons tooth that came from the same as Dorian's and Bull's.

Dorian clasps a hand to his mouth, uncaring that the servants are watching, and Blackwall strides forward to gather him in his arms.

“Oh,” Dorian says brokenly, bursting into tears, and Blackwall cradles his head as he sobs, too overwhelmed to even speak. 

“There, now,” he soothed, “I've got you. I've got you.”

Later, of course, he will be embarrassed by the display. Such emotional reunions have long been trained out of him. The correct response would have been a soft word of welcome, tea followed by small spiced cakes, and then to retire to the study to speak. Instead he cries, all the fear and exhaustion and pain welling up and out until at last he is hollow from his mourning. He has been so breathtakingly lonely. Fereldans call it “skin hunger”, to miss the touch of those they love. Dorian calls it agony.

He leads Blackwall to his room and shuts the door, worn entirely to pieces and far too broken to keep his masks up.

“You papered the walls,” Blackwall says matter of factly, looking at the pink paper with some relish. “Better here than home, and don't tell Bull or we'll never hear the end of it. He'll be wanting to do the whole house and we'll be helpless to stop him.”

“My father is rolling in his urn,” Dorian says, smiling a little at the paper. It has a pattern pressed out in it, making it slightly textured. “I papered directly over the marble.”

“ _No_ ,” Blackwall says, aghast, and Dorian positively cackles.

“Yes, I did. All by myself, at that. I was so bloody sick of these black and white walls, and I was just done with it all. So I papered it pink myself, cursing all the while. Putting up wall paper is no small feat, I might tell you.” Dorian goes to the bed and flops down face first onto it, not so much as twitching when Blackwall cautiously joins him. A few moments later his eyes are fluttering closed as Blackwall strokes his back, as if he were some great lump of a cat.

 _Close enough,_ he thinks, and leans into the hand.

“So this is where you grew up,” Blackwall muses. “Don't know what I expected.”

“Well, not this house, no. I lived on the other side, in Qarinus. It wasn't like this house at all.” Dorian shifts slightly, and Blackwall indulges him by scratching his back.

“Big like this, I'd imagine.”

Dorian snorts. “At the time it took 40 slaves to keep the house functional. Now I employ 80 servants, most of whom live there.”

Blackwall's hand stills, and Dorian winces internally. 

“80 people?” he says, and Dorian sighs.

“Yes.”

“Just to keep the house running.”

“Yes.”

“What a world you live in.”

Dorian closes his eyes tight, a lump growing in his throat. “Yes, but an empty one. My people like me, but they're wise not to trust me given the way others have mistreated them. They care for me, yes, and the Lucerni care for me, but at the end of the day I come back here and I sleep alone, with only a voice for company.”

Blackwall's hand migrates to his hair, running his fingers through it and scratching at the scalp. Dorian goes boneless, something like relief washing through him. Touch is far outside the Tevinter vocabulary, and he hasn't had time to acclimate back to proper behaviors of denial. Perhaps, he considers, not a terrible thing. Self denial is all well and good when for the sake of keeping himself sane and alive in the middle of battles with the Magesterium, but if he's going to be going to be among those he loves, perhaps it is time to indulge.

Blackwall pulls his hand away and Dorian can't quite help the annoyed noise he makes. Blackwall chuckles, rising from the bed. 

“Up you get. You need sleep, and so do I.”

“Ugh.” Dorian rolls onto his back, glaring at the ceiling. “I still have work to do.”

“What, now?”

“I'm in the middle of drafting a law. Or the foundations of it, at least. One of the younger Lucerni is going to be handling it as something of a test for her prowess, she's quite excited.” Dorian sighs, sitting up and stretching. “Maker, I hate politics. I wish I could go back to real work.”

“I'd think that saving the Imperium from itself qualifies as real work,” Blackwall says wryly, and Dorian rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, but you know what I mean. I always rather hoped to be buried in academia, not endless droves of parties and sub-clauses over dam building. Speaking of which, there's a party tomorrow that I'm to be forced to attend, so you'll have to make your own entertainment for the evening. Mahael would be happy to show you the city, but he unfortunately has to come with me. After the last assassination attempt he's become rather... intense.”

“I can't imagine why,” Blackwall drawls, and Dorian grins at him.

“Nor I. I'd best go up to the study, then. If I'm not down by midnight, come find me and drag me off.”

“Of course.”

Dorian rises to leave, only to pause as Blackwall says thoughtfully, “You're always looking for a scandal, right?”

“Well. Not in so many words, but yes. It keeps them guessing, and if I'm playing the outlandish near-traitor, then others can sneak things through the door.” 

Blackwall taps his chin, and grins at him.

“Oh, no,” Dorian says, unable to help his returning grin. “No, no, no.”

“Oh, just think about their _faces_ though,” Blackwall says gleefully. 

Dorian is momentarily transfixed at the thought of Blackwall meeting ancient Traditionalist Magister Ronnani, and his smile goes a little dreamy. “I could unleash you on them and they couldn't do a single thing,” he says, almost floating at the idea. “Maker.”

“You forget, I do actually know how to handle myself around nobility,” Blackwall says. “I just generally choose not to.”

“Mmm, not that I can blame you.” Dorian chuckles, smoothing down his over robe. “Make yourself comfortable. I believe the kitchen still has food left in the cold box- they try and leave some out for me since I have no real set schedule for eating. It drives everyone mad, but it does make poisoning me much more difficult. Marius will likely want to ask you a thousand different questions, please indulge him. He wants very, very badly to be a fighter one day, and while Mahael does his best, Mahael was a gladiator and not a mercenary.”

“Do you want me to train with your guards while I'm here?” Blackwall asks, standing up and walking with him out the door. The house seems even colder with him there, the marble so foreign when Dorian associates him with breathing wood. “I could use someone to spar against.”

“Of course, you're free to use the courtyard. That's where they practice, and where I practice when I'm not running about like a madman with my head cut off. Which, granted, is most of the time. I don't get to practice as much as I would like, unfortunately.” Dorian links arms with him, steering him towards the stairs. “Baths, kitchen, dining hall, and other assorted small rooms are down that way. The study, the library, and a ballroom are upstairs. This floor is bedrooms, sitting rooms, music room, and other such nonsense. Have I mentioned that I hate this house? Because I really, truly hate this house. The library is its only redeeming feature.”

Blackwall chuckles, and Dorian melts inside when he turns and kisses his temple. “I get the picture. Go work, _mon grand_ , I'll go beg some dinner off the cook.”

Dorian pulls him into a hug again. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “Thank you, for coming to get me. It means a great deal that you're here.”

“Wouldn't miss it,” Blackwall murmurs, and when they part Dorian feels lighter than he has in weeks.

He's going _home_.

oOo

Blackwall cleans up very well, a fact that Dorian doesn't quite appreciate until the next morning. His tailor has come to attempt the impossible and demolish some of Dorian's old robes to make something suitable for him to wear. The seamstresses are watching in rapt fascination as Blackwall, his hair up in a perfect bun and adorned with the charms and trinkets that are popular at the moment, steps up onto the stand.

The tailor looks at him agog, and Dorian's inclined to agree.

“This will be quite some work,” he informs Dorian, faintly. “You are very differently built.”

“I was thinking a long over robe, breeches, the boots he already has, and one of those shirts in the Free Marches style that those little twits from Asariel keep sending me,” Dorian says thoughtfully.

“Breeches and over robe, certainly those can be managed. Black, and... green trim, perhaps? No.” The tailor frowns, tapping his lip as he walks around him. One of the seamstresses is taking down measurements in the meantime, muttering numbers and shaking her head as she wraps the measuring tape around his bicep. Blackwall flexes, and her eyes go very round. Dorian barely stifles a laugh. “Perhaps cerulean, for the trim. Cerulean, black, and silver? As I recall, we have some of the gray silk from the Asariel estate in the shop still.”

“Gray for the robe, cerulean for the trim, black for the rest of it,” Dorian decides, grinning wickedly. “I have every intention of letting him play the devilish Southerner.”

The tailor rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. “As for the over robe, in what style?”

Dorian smiles. “Tails, the front cut to a vest. Very long, almost to the floor. Split up to the knee, I think.”

Blackwall groans. “What, those horrible long things like Cassandra likes?”

“It'll be dashing.”

“Fine, fine. So long as the shirt's loose. If I have to fight for your honor I'd prefer to have my arms able to _move_.”

Dorian laughs. “Oh, you'll fight for my honor?”

“Of course.”

His heart warms at the thought, and he rests his head in his hand. “You're far too good for me.”

“Now _that's_ a lie if ever I've heard one. Also, could we have the shirt made out of Markham linen?” He turns to the tailor who looked a little surprised. “I know that Nessum made linen is all the rage or whatever right now, but I'm partial to Markham. It's both finer make and sturdier. And no velvet out of Val Royeaux, it does terrible things to my skin.”

“We can certainly manage that, Ser,” the tailor says faintly. 

“At least the boots won't need a glamour,” Blackwall tells him, obediently moving his arm for another measurement. “The emblazoning is silver, not gold. Best not to clash. What about you, what are you wearing? We should probably dress to match.”

Dorian stares at him, dumbfounded. “It's as if I've walked into another dimension. What next, nail manicures?”

“If you've the time and the money to spare for them, why not?” Blackwall grins at him and Dorian is so helplessly happy to have him here that he just slumps back on his couch and beams.

oOo

“I forget at times that you were once a very well off man,” Dorian says as he carefully lines Blackwall's eyes. Blackwall rolls his eyes and Dorian smiles, drawing a long, sharp line down from his inner eye. Heavy kohl is very in, and so while Blackwall will wear it to offset his clothing, Dorian will go with his usual thin lines.

“I was indeed,” Blackwall says, and grimaces when Dorian begins filling in the lines. “That _itches_.”

“Beauty is pain,” Dorian says mildly, and sits back with a smile. “You're going to be a terror, and I'm delighted.”

“Ugh. All right, let me see the mirror.”

Dorian hands it to him, and cackles as his eyes go wide.

“What in the Makers name-”

“It's very, very fashionable,” Dorian says gleefully. The kohl goes all around his eyes, with sharp points leading halfway down his nose and up towards his hairline. “And if you're wearing it, I don't have to.”

Blackwall mutters a curse and stands, sighing heavily. “On with the clothes, I suppose.”

He retires to dress in one of the guest rooms, and Dorian fetches his own robes. Mahael slips inside the room on soundless feet, and Dorian quietly defers to him. Leathers go first, black vest and breeches, followed by the first layer of fine silk- a soft sea foam green, this time. The robe is fine but plain and sleeveless, buttoning down the side, and is covered by the next layer. This linen is whisper light, breathable in the early autumn but opaque, and a deep blue, the same cerulean as the one Blackwall will wear. This is long sleeved, wide, with tight cuffs that are linked by cuff links containing multiple sigils on them. His robe proper goes on after, sheer silver georgette with enormous belled sleeves trimmed in blue and black brocade trim that had happened to be available at the shop. It's slit to his hips, falling smoothly down to rustle like a sigh as he moves.

Mahael walks around him, frowning thoughtfully, and Dorian tests his movements. His knives are strapped to his thigh, his wrists, calves (hidden under the boot tops) and lower back, able to be reached in moments through a series of cunning and invisible slits. Mahael mutters to himself as Dorian draws each of them, sheathes each of them, and then steps back.

“Must you enjoy sheer so much?”

Dorian smiles, sharply. “Yes.”

Mahael sighs, shaking his head fondly, and lets him out of the room once all his jewelry is switched from his usual spelled gold to spelled silver. He rarely wears it, but tonight he wishes to be icy and serene, utterly untouchable. Blackwall waits in the hall, looking quite awkward and his cuffs still undone.

“Mahael, the long links, please,” Dorian says softly, and walks to him.

Blackwall smiles as he smooths the shoulders. “Tis very fine work. Your tailor is excellent.”

“Of course he is,” Dorian says with a smile. The ensemble is glorious, Blackwall's rather pirate like shirt open at the throat to bare the dragon tooth that Dorian wears outside of his own robes. The overrobe is sleeveless, unlike Dorian's, and in the finest of the silks that came from the Pavus estate in Asariel. It hangs in the style so favored in the south, with the straps open but ready to be tightened, and his shoes have been buffed to glossy perfection.

Mahael returns with a pair of silver cuff links, tiny emeralds and sapphires dangling from a long chain between the links, and Dorian affixes them with quiet solemnity as Blackwall watches.

“They were my fathers,” he said to the unasked question. “You should keep them.”

“I couldn't,” Blackwall starts, then stops. “Very well.”

Dorian smiles up at him, patting his cheek. “Better they come to better purpose, yes? You look wonderful.”

“Shall we?” Mahael drawls. 

“Yes,” Dorian says, offering his his arm. Blackwall takes it with a smile. “We shall.”

oOo

“And this, hurm, this is your young man?”

Magister Altan is not a young man by any means, and has long since hit that delightful stage where giving a damn about what anyone thinks is far beyond him. He's also incredibly powerful and quick for a man approaching his 90's, which is why he's still alive. (That, and having long since formed a complete immunity to most poisons over careful application of small doses over the years.) He's the first to have cornered Dorian and Blackwall upon entrance to the party, insisting that Dorian sit by him on an overstuffed couch.

“My- my partner, yes,” Dorian says, sparing a look at Blackwall. Blackwall is surveying the room with the most impassive mask he's ever seen, and the hosts are definitely looking their way.

“Dashed good,” Altan says, slapping Dorian's knee. “Ruddy great idiot, your father. You're better off without him or a wife. Aggravating things, wives. I've had five, and a good solid man, hurm, much better. We must be getting on without this blasted idiocy of “the dove coos at midnight” around difficult areas of town, donchagree?”

Dorian blanks for a moment, but would also definitely like to not have Altan shouting about his preferences in anything above a whisper, so he just nods and excuses himself. He goes to Blackwall, who catches two glasses of wine from a passing slave with perfect ease and timing and passes him one. Magister Ultrix, their host, decides to descend upon them like a wrathful dove. Feathers are currently in, and Dorian despairs, but at least it's not veils anymore. Those were damnably hard to eat and drink politely in, if they weren't thick.

Ultrix oozes up in front of them, and Blackwall gives him a slow look up and down, entirely judging. Dorian resists the urge to giggle in pure glee. Blackwall has the perfect aristocratic stare down cold, and Ultrix hastily turns to him.

“Magister Pavus, a pleasure to see you as always.”

A quick set of bows, both of them keeping their eyes on each other. Dorian smiles with all his teeth. 

“What a wonderful thing, to be invited to your home Magister Ultrix.”

“But of course! I heard you were taking your leave for sabbatical and couldn't miss the opportunity.” The, _to murder you_ , went unsaid, as ever. It wasn't quite that sort of party.

Yet.

“And, ah, your... associate?”

Douano Ultrix had always put Dorian somewhat in mind of a small, overbred dog. He was shaky, as most things went, with overly wide eyes that darted back and forth, a wiry little frame, and a great tendency to bark louder than he could bite. From the looks of how he's examining how well Blackwall fills out his coat, his tastes in taking on more than he could handle had translated to the bedroom as well. Dorian is simply grateful that he doesn't have to positively pry him off of Bull.

“Ser Thom Blackwall,” Dorian says smoothly, and Blackwall inclines his head. “Late of the Inquisition, where we met.”

Ultrix positively vibrates with interest, blinking the enormous eyes. “You don't say. How marvelous. And what is it that you do now, Ser Blackwall?”

Blackwall gives him one last slow look over, and smiles slowly. It is a _very_ slow smile, rife with secrets and dark thoughts, and Dorian feels like a child at Satinalia just watching this. “I hunt, Lord Magister.”

“Hunt?” Ultrix' gaze darts between Blackwall and Dorian, trying to gauge the interest there. Is Blackwall with him? Is he not? Is Dorian going to put up a fuss? “And- and what is it that you hunt?”

Blackwall's smile is positively predatory. “People, Lord Magister. I most often hunt people, doing mercenary work. And work wood as time allows.”

Ultrix breath catches in his throat, and Blackwall sips at his wine, his eyes never leaving Ultrix. Ultrix swallows as he does, throat bobbing, and Dorian takes a sip of his own. For once, not drugged. Excellent.

“'55 Pavero,” Blackwall says thoughtfully. “I shudder to think what you bring out for a regular dinner, then. A poor choice for such an.... _eventful_ evening. Perhaps we'll speak later?”

Blackwall has just outright dismissed the host from his own conversation. Ultrix stammers a yes and flees towards the courtyard, looking quite red in the cheeks.

Dorian quietly clinks their glasses, and Blackwall takes his arm.

oOo

This, Dorian thinks with hazy happiness on a couch, is what an education looks like.

“Bull,” he says into the crystal as he watches Blackwall strip down from a very successful party, “Bull, I'm sorry, I'm keeping him.”

Blackwall snorts, and Bull laughs on the other end. “ _Having fun bonding?_ ”

“He ate them alive,” Dorian says gleefully. “ _Alive_ I tell you. Ultrix was all but begging him to step on him by the time we left, and half the other magisters either wanted to kill him or marry him, and it's a toss up as to which. He's the talk of the town and I'm going to spirit him away where none of them can find him and none of them are going to stop me. I am so happy to be going home.” He sighs, content for the first time in months. “Oh, _amatus_ , it was masterfully done.”

Blackwall chuckles, walking over to push his still booted feet off the couch. “And I am done performing for the evening, unless you want me to shine those boots of yours.”

Dorian pauses, and Bull makes a slow, considering noise. 

The air changes, going breathless, and Dorian waits for Bull to speak.

“ _If you're both all right with it,_ ” he says after a moment. “ _And I better hear the details when you get back._ ”

Dorian smiles, putting his mouth to the crystal to murmur, “Every breath, my love,” and cuts the connection.

Blackwall gives him a slow, considering look, and Dorian flicks up an eyebrow. “Well?”

“It's a thought,” he says. “Is it a thought you're all right with?”

“So long as you don't try and loom over me,” Dorian says, a twinge of discomfort hitting him. “I don't care for human men trying to overpower me much these days.”

Blackwall looks faintly murderous as he smiles. “When I die, I'm going to hunt your father down and punch him in the face. Repeatedly.” He walks to the cabinet, and Dorian nods to the third drawer. Old habits die hard, and after so much time in the Inquisition doing his own work on his things, he's grown fond of the practice. His cleaning gear sits neatly with the sewing kit, and Blackwall smiles rather fondly as he lifts both out.

“What?” Dorian says, mildly offended. “It's a useful skill for repairing books.”

“I just forget sometimes that you get so domestic. It's cute.”

Dorian scowls at him, but only until Blackwall smiles with such warmth that it melts all the consternation away. “Stop wasting time,” he says, putting just a hint of command into it, and feels rather pleased at the immediate response. Blackwall's shoulders straighten and he sets the things aside, returning to kneel in front of him. Dorian tosses down a pillow immediately. “And don't ruin you knees. Bull would have both of our skins.”

“Of course.”

Dorian raises an imperious eyebrow, flicking his foot out to tap Blackwall's chin. “Of course...”

Blackwall swallows hard. “Of course, ser.”

“Better.”

oOo

They leave early in the morning, when Minrathous is still half asleep and only the very earliest workers are awake. They travel light, just the two of them, Dorian dressed as if he's about to go off adventuring once more. Mahael sees them to the edge of the city and waves them off.

They cross over the long bridge and onto the continent. Dorian stretches, the morning air crisp against his skin, and Blackwall looks up at the wheeling birds. 

“Ready to go home?” He asks, and Dorian smiles. He reaches out, offering his hand between them, and Blackwall takes it with a smile. 

“Let's go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please do let me know if you enjoyed this! Comments give me life. I can be found at heronfem on tumblr as well.


End file.
